


Orange Vs. Maroon

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Busted body parts, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Im bad at tagging without spoilers, Lies, Warthog abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:12:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: The morning stated the same way as any other. Loudly and with lots of swearing. Boots, smokes, and lying to Sarge. What could go wrong? Centered around Blood Gulch, it seems. I don't really know what's going to happen. (Classic 'wing it' mentality, i guess. I don't see any updates happening to this one any time soon. Maybe a rewrite?)





	1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this may well be out of character and there probably will be typos so please bear with me haha I am writing on a tablet. The dear reader will also note that I have no idea how this will take place. At the moment, I chose Blood Gultch and we may move on from there. Who knows?

SUMMARY: The morning stated the same way as any other. Loudly and with lots of swearing. Centered around Blood Gulch, it seems. I don't really know what's going to happen. I'm going to be just as surprised as you, dear reader. Enjoy! 

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CHAPTER ONE

The morning sun shown down on the bases of Blood Gulch, bouncing off the grey roofs in a wavery gleam of white. The emerald grass was particularly dazzling today against the rich browns of the enclosing rock walls (?). There was very little movement from either side of valley. The only noises were the swish of wind and various alien chirping (screeching?) bird thingies. For the most part, it was a typical, peaceful morning.

Until it suddenly wasn't. 

"Goddammit, Donut!" came a yell and a loud, jarring crash.

"It wasn't me, Simmons, honest!" The lightish red cadet defended himself. Then he furrowed his brows, thinking. Then he added, "…this time. Definitely not this time."

The maroon soldier was laying in a heap at the foot of the ramp leading out of the base, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Donut was untangling himself in an attempt to get upright. Simmons groaned, thankful for his helmet. He shoved Donut off him to sit up and looked around to see what sent them tumbling outside. Also what the fuck was that stench?

Boots. Muddy orange boots. (At least he hoped it was mud.) That explained the smell. One of them was halfway up the ramp, the other where Simmons's head had been. Simmons felt his blood start to boil. He yanked off his helmet.

"GRIF!" he yelled down the corridor.

An orange armored figure rounded the corner, his own helmet tucked under his arm, with only socks on his feet. He was yawning and rumpling his dark hair.

"What? Why are we screaming already? Hey, have you guys seen my bo-- ha! Am I interrupting something?" He snickered as his hazel eyes came to rest on the slowly separating pile of pink and maroon. 

"Fuck you and your stupid boots!" Simmons exploded, standing up. He grabbed a still struggling Donut by the scruff of his neck and dragged him up too.

"Ow! Simmons!" He whined, rubbing his neck.

"Shut up, Donut," growled Simmons.

He glanced around and bent quickly to snatch up the closest boot and launched it at Grif. 

"There's your stupid shoe, dumbass! Quit leaving them where people can trip over them!"

It flew through the air, directly en route to Grif's face. He dipped back, pivoting on his left foot while his right one left the ground. The soldier felt the wind off of it, but he managed to avoid the projectile. It bounced off the wall behind him with a thud.

"Ha! You m--!" but the rest of his sentence was cut off as he lost his footing. "Fuck!"

Grif wobbled, flailing his arms to try and catch his balance, but it was too late. His stockinged foot slipped out from under him and he hit the smooth, polished concrete hard, hip first. All the air went out of him in an, "Uff!" His helmet went wide and rolled down the ramp to join Simmons and Donut. Grif was not far behind. 

The orange soldier groaned as he began to slide slowly, awkwardly down the incline on his back. His armor scraped along as he went. What a way to start the day. 

"That's called karma," Simmons chuckled when Grif finally came to rest at their feet. He made no attempt to get up. "Shouldn't have left your boots out on the ramp."

"Fuck… you…" Grif gasped, holding his side. "Also… ow."

The smug smile did not leave Simmons's face, but he did offer Grif a hand up, to which the orange soldier latched on to. 

His armor had taken the brunt of his concrete dive, but his side still radiated with pain when Simmons hoisted him up. Grif tried not to gasp but he made enough of a sound that Simmons's smug grin faltered ever so slightly. Grif didn't notice. Oddly, he was still trying to catch his breath. 

"FRONT AND CENTER, LADIES!!" Sarge's voice roared from outside and out of sight.

Donut jumped to attention. Simmons looked up in Sarge's general direction.

"Yes, Sir!" Donut shouted enthusiastically and in a pink flash, he was off. 

Simmons made off a little more slowly, putting his helmet back on. A glint of orange caught his attention and Grif took an awkward step towards it. He still had a hand pressed to his side, panting slightly.

A quick flash of guilt passed through Simmons and he jogged up the ramp to grab Grif's boots for him. When he turned around to make his way back down, Grif was pushing his helmet down over his head. If Simmons didn't know better, he wouldn't have even been able to tell that his friend's posture wasn't quite right. 

"Here," said Simmons, handing over the footwear.

Grif accepted them gratefully, happy to not have to waste the energy on going back up. Ugh, it was like he was breathing fire. What the fuck?

"Thanks," he said, he paused and then said something Simmons didn't expect, "Sorry about your guys' fall. You okay?"

"Huh? Yeah, I just hurt my dignity. You good?"

Grif's helmet bobbed affirmatively. He grunted as he jammed his feet into his boots.

"Let's go see what our fearless leader wants," he said.  
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: And there you have it. Chapter One. Short, yes, but as I've said, I'm trying to get my brain back in the swing of writing. It's been way too long. Anyway, review if you liked it, follow if you dare. Tell me what you'd maybe like to see happen next. I don't have a concrete story planned out, so suggestions are welcome. I have at least three chapters to this :)

Til next time, dear reader!


	2. Chapter Two

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the part I was dreading. Wish me luck keeping everyone in character. I'll probably keep it simple haha Enjoy!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
CHAPTER TWO

Drills. It just had to be drills. Of course. 

Sweat dripped down into his eyes as he half assed his last pushup before collapsing to the ground. Grif lay there with his side throbbing; panting and cursing his general existence. Simmons hopped up next to him, chipper and ready for the next activity. Donut was right behind him. 

'How the fuck can they be this excited about exercises?' He wondered 'Also am I dying? Fuck, I didn't fall that hard.'

In front of them, Sarge paced back and forth, watching his soldiers. As always, Grif was last in the bunch to finish. Behind his visor, Sarge rolled his eyes. 

"All right, ladies, time for a jog!" He barked. "Grif! On your feet! I'm gonna go help Lopez fix the Warthog since SOMEBODY crashed it."

" Yeah... That was you," said Grif, stumbling to his feet. 

"Double time for you, numbnuts!" Sarge yelled. He brandished his firearm as motivation. The red armor glinted in the sun.

"Goddamn it."

"Hup two, hup two! Left foot, right foot! Go, go, go!" Sarge yelled, pumping the shotgun.

"Fuck," he muttered, but he started to plod along.

Simmons and Donut were already running well ahead of him. Grif scanned his surroundings.

'Fuck this,' he thought. 'I'll run ONE LAP, but then I'm napping.'

Each step jarred his side. It had been almost two hours since he ate shit on the concrete this morning. He kept up with drills this long and fuck it he was done. 

A loud bang made him jump and he swung his arms up over his head. Way ahead of him, he saw Simmons spin around and duck for cover.

"Hah, pussy," he wheezed over the radio. 

Simmons snapped a hand up in a one finger salute. He may have been far off, but he knew Grif could see it clear as day. Grif gave him a double solute.

"I said 'double time', Nancy! Knees to chest! Knees to chest!" Sarge whooped. Grif could hear the glee in his voice as he pumped another round into his shotgun.

He groaned and picked up the pace, vowing to hide the second he got out of Sarge's sight. 

He didn't notice Simmons's lingering glance back as he started running again.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
&&&

'Hurgh, finally,' thought Grif, stopping under the weird tree. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He took his helmet off, tossed it down gently and pushed his sweaty hair out this face. 'Shitsnacks.' 

His side burned with every breath. Fucking stitch. He looked around for a sign of Simmons or Donut before carefully releasing the latches on his breastplate. There's no way he could be this much of a wuss, right? It was, like, a two foot drop, and the armor took most of it.

Grif dropped the breastplate to the ground and rubbed at his side, grumbling. The orange soldier maneuvered himself to the ground using the tree trunk for leverage. Opening a storage compartment in his left leg plates, he drew out a cigarette and matches. He stuck it in his mouth and struck a match to light it up when he heard the crackle of the radio in his helmet.

"GRIF, COME IN. GRIF. DO YOU COPY?"

"Fuck me," he groaned. "Leave me alone for five fucking minutes!"

It sounded like Simmons. He finished lighting his smoke and took a drag before grabbing his helmet. He reached in and pressed the manual response button.

"What?"

"WHERE ARE YOU?" Simmons asked.

"I'm running my laps," Grif lied, taking another puff. He let a thin stream of blue smoke from between his lips. "Gotta go. Over and out or whatever."

"WAIT, GRIF."

But Grif already switched off the radio and tossed the helmet back down. He took a deep pull on his cigarette and leaned back, wincing. 

"I knew you weren't running!" Came a voice behind him.

Grif jumped and inhaled too much. Immediately, he surrounded himself in a cloud of smoke as he coughed it all out. It seemed like once it started, he couldn't stop. He couldn't catch his breath. Something seemed grind inside his chest. Dots in his vision. Goddamn it.

"Ow…*cough* what the fuck, Simmons?!" He choked out, holding his side with one hand and trying wave the air clear with the other. 

"I fucking knew it! Smoking again! With MY lungs!" Simmons came around front of the Hawaiian(?) and pointed accusingly.

"They're… my lungs… now!" Grif countered, still gasping a little.

"Uh huh, whatever. And what's with the weird posture today? You fucking look like Quasimodo."

"Fuck, does that make you… that weirdo priest guy, Frodo or… something? You know, the pissy dude in a dress who had to… control everything?" groaned Grif.

Behind his visor, Simmons cocked an eyebrow.

"You've read a book?" He asked.

"Fuck that, I watched a movie. The gypsy lady was hot," Grif leaned back against the tree trunk, breathing a little easier. The strain of coughing made the radiating pain as fresh as when he first fell. He puffed on the cigarette again anyway.

"What did you want?" He asked, exhaling smoke. "Is Donut with you?"

Simmons sat down next to Grif suddenly. He pulled off his own helmet, then his gloves and ruffled his hair off his forehead. His green eyes were full of concern.

"No, he's 'helping' Sarge and Lopez. I was trying to tell you he forgot about drills."

"Oh, cool, so it's safe to come back to base."

"Yeah. Anyway, show me already."

"What? No. Show you what?"

"Come on, asshole, I can tell you're hurting. What'd you do? Trip and fall out here? I may not be a medic, but at least I can do basic first aid or whatever."

Grif stared at him. When he didn't move, Simmons narrowed his eyes. 

"Dude, come on, just show me, or I'll tell Sarge to call Doc," he threatened, mostly teasing.

Grif rolled his eyes, "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Simmons plucked up his helmet, smirking. "We have to think about the unit's health as a whole."

"Ugh, fine, kissass. Just… don't touch it. I'll be fine, seriously. It's probably just a bruise."

Grif stuck his cigarette between his lips and let it dangle there, ignoring Simmons's grimace. He started to lift the hem of his black shirt, gritting his teeth. 

His dark Hawaiian skin was exposed and their eyes rested on a giant, puffy black and blue bruise that stretched from his left hip, all the way up to the middle of his back. There was even an indent where the orange breast plate had been strapped on. Simmons, without thinking, reached out and placed a hand over it, checking for heat.

"Fuck," Grif mumbled, slapping the hand away. "Ow. What did I say? I said no touching. What you just did is the exact opposite."

Simmons smacked him back on the shoulder in annoyance.

"What the hell?" Simmons ignored Grif's whining. "Excessive heat at the bruise site could mean a fracture. And it DOES look like you broke a fucking rib. Look how swollen that shit is. What the fuck happened?"

Grif pulled his shirt back down in a huff and took another drag.

"Uh, I ate shit on the concrete this morning, remember?" he exhaled smoke with each word, much to his friend's disgust. 

"Seriously? Why didn't you say anything? It was like a two foot drop man!"

"No shit, asshole, I landed on the corner and this fucking armor is heavy," he spat. "Seriously, who the fuck needs concrete THAT smooth during a war?"

"Shit, why would you go through drills like that?" Simmons wondered our loud.

Grif didn't answer, and Simmons fell silent. Then he reached over and plucked the cigarette out of Grif's hand, ignoring his protests.

"Tell anyone about this and you're dead," he muttered, before putting it to his lips and taking a pull. 

It burned not quite unpleasantly in his lungs. He handed it back quietly while he exhaled and he could feel Grif staring him down as he accepted it. 

"Uh, what the fuck, Simmons?" 

"I shouldn't have thrown the goddamn boot at you while you were at the top. That was dangerous and my fault. And I'm really sorry."

"Uuuugh, goddamn it," Grif passed a hand over his eyes. He felt his face get hot. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left my stupid boots at the top of the ramp. I did it to keep you from bitching about the smell, not to trip you up. This could just as easily be you in my place. Goddamn it, just forget it."

He puffed on what was left of his cigarette before grinding it out in the dirt. Simmons gaped. An apology from Grif was rare, let alone thinking of others.

"Grif."

"Look, let's just go back," he said, reaching for his helmet. His ears were burning in embarrassment as he shoved it over his head. Grif knew it needed to be said, and he didn't know why he was so uncomfortable about it. He took a deep breath and shook his shoulders.

"Come on, help me up," Grif sighed, grabbing his discarded breastplate. 

Simmons basically jumped up, and stuck out his hand. He grabbed it. Now that Grif was busted, he took his time getting up. He was panting by the time he was back on his feet. 

"Gimme that," Simmons said, taking the breastplate. 

The maroon dude fiddled with then straps a bit before handing it back. 

"Here, I loosened it so it doesn't stick in so bad," he mumbled, pulling his gloves and helmet back on. "Let's get back to base. I can at least help wrap up that bruise."

"And the only way that's happening is if we agree we're not telling anybody shit about this, right?"

"I mean if you don't want to..."

"Dude, it was a two foot drop. If Sarge knew, I would NEVER hear the end of it. If I'm going to get bitched out about something, I would rather it be something worthwhile. Not a fuckin' bruise," Grif said. He paused and cocked his head in thought, then added, "And I say 'worthwhile' loosely in this stupid ass war."

"Yeah, that's true. I don't even known what the deal is with two bases in a boxed canyon. Like, who the fuck cares? Us and the Blues could probably switch bases and it wouldn't matter."

"Yeah, fuck that. That's too much thought for me right now. One day at a time."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

&&&  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: And Chapter Two. It's kind of coming along. Looking like a hurt/comfort/angsty dealio. Again, let me know what you think read and review dear reader. See you next time. :)


	3. Chapter Three

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Maybe it's because I'm a sucker for some hurt/comfort, but this may get a little dark. Dear reader, consider this your warning. Cross posted now on Tumblr! ðŸ˜‚

 

CHAPTER THREE  
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It was early afternoon by the time they got back at base, the pair managed to avoid Sarge, who was busy barking orders at Donut. They could hear Lopez saying something, but nobody could ever understand that dude. How had technology come so far and they didn't have a goddamn language setting? A metallic clang rang out and Donut yelled.

Morbid curiosity almost got the best of the orange private. For a split second, he thought about rounding the corner of the building to check out the scene. Then he missed a step and stumbled.

"Ow." Yeah, nope. Med bay it is. 

They snuck into the base, and made their way there quietly. The awkward silence they shared on the way back didn't break, but turned more companionable as they went. Grif didn't have the energy for small talk anyway. They entered the wide room and thankfully no one was there.

"Go sit down," Simmons ordered, steering him towards a stool by a tall surgical table. "It's been a while, but if I'm remembering correctly, you're supposed to keep breathing deep. Through the pain, I guess."

Grif made a mental note to ask Simmons what I meant by that. 'If he remembered correctly?'

The two colorful soldiers shed their helmets and gloves again. The orange breastplate clanged on the grey surface. Simmons began rummaging through the various cabinets and drawers for medical supplies. Grif settled onto the stool, elbows on the table. He dropped his head into his hands and sighed audibly. 

"Got any painkillers over there?"

"Yeah," came the reply. Then the sound of rustling and splashing. "Here."

Grif turned to see Simmons at his shoulder. In one arm, what looked like three miles of linen and bandages; in his other hand, four white tablets and a glass of water. 

"Thanks," Grif said, accepting gratefully. "Do we really need all that?"

"Yes."

"Well, okay, then." 

The Hawaiian tossed all the pills into his mouth at once and slugged half the glass of water. He set it on the table next to the rolls of linen.

"All right, let's get this over with!" Grif exclaimed, grabbing the hem of his shirt again. 

He tugged it up with both arms and got the fabric up over his face and suddenly stopped. It felt like lightening shot through his side and he dropped his arms back down with a growling sort of yelp. Immediately, the feeling lessened to something slightly more bearable. He punched at the table in a flash of frustration, trying to get a good lungful of air.

"What happened?!" Simmons jumped, looking up from rooting in another drawer across the room.

Grif could only gasp. He felt like he was going to vomit from the pain. He couldn't get words out. His arm waved vaguely towards the trashcan. Simmons was up in a flash and had it sitting in front of them. Grif leaned over it, dry heaving and willing his stomach to be still. His hands gripped his knees and he spat out the metallic taste in his mouth. He sat like that for a long minute or two, trying to control his breathing before deciding nothing more was going to happen.

"Uuuugh, this is so stupid," he panted, wiping his lips. "Fuck. Ugh, I'm good. Goddamn."

Grif sat back up, shivering in disgust and looked at Simmons, who looked a bit scared and paler than usual. 

"Uh, yeah, I'm gonna need some help getting this off," said Grif, motioning to his shirt with one tembling hand and picking up his glass with the other. "I can't get my one arm up all the way without dying, apparently."

"Dude, we might have to tell Sarge about this anyway. How are you going to function?"

"Very minimally, as is expected of me," came Grif's wry comment over the rim of the water glass. He took a swig and swished around his mouth before spitting it into the trashcan. "Come on."

Simmons gingerly grabbed the hem of Grif's right sleeve.

"Pull, smartass," he directed, holding on tight.

Grif slid his arm out of the sleeve and pulled the shirt the rest of the way over his head in one movement now that he had something to work with. He tugged it off his left arm and grabbed on before it slid to the floor. The soldier tossed it up onto the table.

"Thanks," he grunted, wrapping an arm around his midsection. "Shit."

The bruise was darker now and Simmons could swear he saw a hint of red now near the center. 

'Fuck, that looks like it hurts,' he thought. 

Simmons opened his mouth again, not sure what he wanted to say. 

"Well, that Tylenol should help," he said haltingly. "Come on, sit up as straight as you can for me." 

Simmons selected a wide strip of fabric and freed the end of it. He stood behind Grif, who was trying to straighten his posture. 

"This is gonna suck, but I need you to hold that end down on your chest and lift your arms up as far as you can so I have room to work."

Grif obliged, pinning it down with his fingertips on his mismatched skin with his right hand. His left arm he just held awkwardly away from his side. Simmons trailed the bandage around once, reached around and caught the end. He looped it around a few more times to make sure it didn't come loose. 

The maroon soldier noticed his patient slowly starting to slouch to the left again. He tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sit up straight," he reminded him, starting to tighten down the bandage.

"I gotta put my arm down a minute, Simmons," Grif whined, but he straightened up. 

Simmons paused as Grif relaxed. He could hear the other soldier trying to take deep, even breaths, even if they were a bit wheezy.

"Here, hold this," he said, handing him the bundle of bandages. "Try to keep it tight. I'll be right back." 

Simmons dragged the trashcan to the side and pulled up another stool in front of Grif. He dropped into it and, after a few manipulations, sat facing each other. Simmons set Grif's right arm on the table next to them.

"Okay, I realize this is going to be shitty and probably is going to hurt, but I need to you put your other arm up and brace it up on my shoulder," Simmons explained. "That way it makes you sit up straight, and maybe make it easier to breathe."

"Ugh, fine." 

He took a deep breath and winced. Simmons took his wrist gently and slowly began to raise Grif's arm. Simmons noted the tips of Grif's red ears as he complied.

"Tell me if you need to stop."

Grif grunted as his arm got higher, but he didn't say stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth until his forearm rested on Simmons's shoulder.

As soon as he was in place, the maroon soldier began to wrap again. 

"So what are you going to tell Sarge, then? Simmons tried.

Grif looked at a point behind Simmons shoulder, deep in thought. His face fell slightly before he smiled softly.

"I dunno, something cool," he said. "It doesn't really matter, Sarge will just find a way to complain or give me a hard time about it. It's his way."

Grif gave a little eyeroll at the end of his speech and Simmons chuckled. 

"Yeah, I'm sure we'll think of something," agreed Simmons. 

He wrapped around one more time and tucked the end of the bandage in to the rest of it. He gently set the arm on his shoulder into Grif's lap. His ears flaired red again. 

"Well, how's it feel?"

"Eh, better, I guess," Grif admitted, bending around a little to test it. 

"Between that and the pills, you ought to be okay-ish for a little while," Simmons said, packing up the medical supplies. 

He handed the bottle of Tylenol to Grif, followed by one of those snap activated ice packs.

"I'd used the ice pack as soon as you can," he warned. "Keep the swelling down."

"Thanks, man," Grif said quietly. 

The orange soldier finagled his shirt back on before Simmons could offer to help. Then he grabbed his breastplate up again and slung it over his head.

"Well, I'm going to see if I can sneak back into the barracks and take a nap."

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AUTHOR'S NOTES  
\-------------  
Chapter Three, ladies and gents. Thanks for all the notes on Tumblr!! I don't know what's next, as this is all I had. Thanks for reading so far. :) EDIT: Thank you for all the Hits and Kudos guys!! 


	4. Chapter 4

NOTES: Thanks for all the hits, comments and kudos, guys. ðŸ˜Š  
PS: I used Google translate for the Spanish, don't kill me lol

____________

  
CHAPTER FOUR  
\-------------------

Simmons didn't see much more than a glance at Grif outside for the rest of the day. He was out of his armor, which, to be honest, wasn't too surprising. But he was carrying his helmet, so at least he had his radio. He thought about calling him, but if Grif was on a secret mission to rest undisturbed Simmons didn't want to interrupt.

The redhead was kept busy with the Warthog ever since Sarge first laid eyes on him coming out Red Base. Grif was just a pro at avoidance. Sarge had then spent a lot of time stomping around and griping about how lazy the orange soldier was, how he was nowhere to be found. Simmons was actually a little impressed at the godlike ability to be so scarce at will.

The cyborg was currently elbow deep in the Warthog's guts, trying to replace the last screw of some plating before calling it a day. One more twist should do it. There.

With a grunt, Simmons withdrew from the jeep's innards. Without closing the hood, he turned around and leaned against it, blocking Donut from view.

'He should have joined the stealth unit after boot camp,' mused Simmons, playing idly with the multitool in his hand. 'I'll just have to catch him before lights out, I guess.'

He hoped those painkillers were working at least. The cyborg never had to wrap someone else's ribs before, but he thought he did all right. Simmons kept thinking about that bruise. It was disconcerning; the ugly, angry, mottled skin. That hint of red in the center. The swelling.

"SIMMONS!" Sarge's voice boomed from right next to him.

At the sound of his name, Simmons jumped and knocked his helmet against the Warthog with a thud. The multitool flew from his grasp and out of his sight. There was a 'clank!' followed by an indignant, very pink "HEY!" from the Warthog's cab.

The maroon soldier leapt clumsily to attention.

"Yes, Sir?" Simmons yelped, his heart still pounding.

"Soldier, if I woulda been a dirty Blue, you woulda been dead! Where's your head at?" growled the red sergeant.

"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir! Won't happen again!" Simmons squeaked, warmth flooding his face.

"See that it doesn't, Private!" Sarge barked. He slapped a hand down on the side of the vehicle. "Now! At ease! Where are we on the Warthog?"

" Uh, yessir, we just finished screwing the last of the underplating back on." replied Simmons, a little too quickly. "It should be ready to go."

Sarge's helmet tilted slightly, but before he could say what was on his mind, a bubbly voice piped up.

"Yeah! Simmons is GREAT with his hands!"

Thank goodness for helmets. The ginger's face and neck was flushed and hot with embarrassment. Donut had hopped out of the jeep to hand Simmons's multitool back.

"DONUT, shut up!" Simmons groaned, taking it. He noted the scratched pink paint above the center of his visor.

"Excellent, uh," Sarge cleared his throat. "Well, then, I'll just take her for a little spin to make sure."

"Yes, sir!" Chirped Donut.

Sparing the pair of privates a longer look than normal, Sarge hopped in the Warthog without another word. He'd brought the engine roaring to life and sped off. Simmons could swear he saw Sarge shaking his head as he went.

" Welp! I guess that's it for today, Simmons! " said Donut, patting him on the shoulder. "I need a good soak after all that work!"

" Yeah, okay, " Simmons responded automatically. His thoughts were already turning towards checking up on Grif

"Are you coming back to base now? We could have popcorn and watch a movie!"

"Uh, sure, maybe later, Donut. Sorry about --" Simmons mimed hitting himself in the head with his multitool.

"No problem! I can touch it up back at base! What are you going to do?"

The question caught him off guard, and he stumbled through his answer.

"Uh, I'm gonna go, I mean, I think I'm going to look for, um, go look for Grif. Sarge was right. He hasn't been around all day and I'm kinda--" he bit his tongue, before he let slip. "So... yeah..." He trailed off awkwardly.

Smooth one, Simmons.

"Well, okay, when you find him, let me know how he is. I'm a little worried, too, to be honest. That fall sure looked like it hurt! I would be hiding too! SO embarrassing!"

And before the cyborg could formulate an intelligent response, the pink soldier bounded away with an energy that suggested he hadn't been schlepping heavy Warthog parts back and forth all day. Simmons watched enviously, aware of the aches in his shoulder and lower back.

Simmons groaned again before opening a private comm channel between Grif and himself. He slipped the multitool into an armor compartment on his outer thigh.

"Grif, come in, do you copy? Over."

He waited a few moments for a response, taking in the setting sun.

"Grif, come in, over!"

More radio silence.

"Simmons to Grif, come in!"

Still no answer. Maybe he didn't have his helmet on. Or he was sleeping? Worry began to seep slowly into Simmons's cybernetic gut. He hadn't missed him go back into base, had he?

He decided to make his way back into base after all to check.

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not many people knew Dexter Grif came in third of his class in stealth ops training.

He was a natural master. He was one with his environment. He could tell you who was walking down the hall by the sound of their footsteps. Maybe even their mood, if he was paying enough attention. "Trouble applying himself" was how his Drill Instructor had described it.

It was not hard to hear what kind of mood Sarge was in when he came marching into Red Base shortly after Grif arrived, grumbling. With difficulty, the man sat up already thinking of an out.

Dammit, after he'd finally gotten semi-comfortable.

His armor was mostly piled under his bed, the exception being his helmet (tossed next to him on the mattress) and at Sarge's racket, he kicked the rest of it out of sight too. Boots on, grab helmet, maneuver himself up off the bed.

Ohh, that last one was easier said than done. Fire radiated from his side despite the mushy ice pack crammed between his bandages as he tiptoed towards his door. He gritted his teeth and cocked his head to listen, a hand on his ribs.

The marching and grumbling had been headed directly his way. Now by the sound of it, Sarge made a pitstop in the kitchen to destroy the coffee maker. If he wanted to sneak out, it was now or never.

Grif slunk though the door, and down the hallway. He made his way silently through the common area (ducking beneath the divider and praying Sarge didn't turn around) and out the back door into the blazing sun.

He gave a quick nod to Simmons as he brushed by the soldiers clustered around a disassembled jeep before rounding the corner, putting him out of sight.

The orange soldier nearly screamed when he found himself suddenly visor to visor with Lopez, whose arms were full of tools.

"Oye, ¿a dónde vas, perezoso naranja?" ( Hey, where are you going, lazy orange one?) He asked in his monotone Spanish.

"Shh, Lopez, be quiet!" hissed Grif, heart pounding. "Ow, shit!"

Lopez cocked his head at him. He heard a soft whirl.

"¿Especialmente con una costilla magullada?" (Especially with a bruised rib?)

"Just keep it down!"

Lopez shook his head and shouldered past Grif.

"Idiota."

"Yeah, thanks, you too. Hey, I'll have Donut give you a nice oil change if you say you didn't see me."

"Vete a la mierda." The robot said, as he rounded the corner.

Grif wasn't sure where he was headed. He could go to the roof, but that was probably too obvious. Maybe out in the 'front yard', but that seemed even worse.

'Come on, Grif, *think*,' he admonished himself. 'There's got to be somewhere close you can catch a nap.'

There WAS a cave near the weird No Man's Land tree he could probably hide out in for the day and he knew no one would bother him, but that was a bit of a trek. And, you know, over an open field. With no cover.

Oh, or the cliff. The red cliff was close.

An explosion of polka music, followed by Sarge yelling from the front yard pretty much made the decision for him.

He hung back until the Red Leader went back in Base for his coffee and immediately began hoofing it along the canyon wall.

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NOTES: Chapter Four, here we are! I have no idea what direction this is going, but I'm sure our boys will tell me eventually! 


End file.
